Redemption of Souls
by Jeremy
Summary: Set three years after Musings, this fic shows the fight of two young people trying to change both past and future and redeem the souls of great people while trying to preserve their own...
1. Prologue

Redemption of Souls  
Prologue  
By Jeremy  
  
There was nothing more casual than a soldier's camp before a great battle. When one knew that death may very well await one when the moment of battle came, one tended to do anything but be gloomy. As such, the greater the battle, the greater the games and jest and laughs. And in this camp the laughs and games were especially jolly and loud, as the battle set for the morrow would be especially bloody.  
  
After all, they were facing the new army of Midland now.  
  
To the people of Chuda, it really was nothing new to face the Kingdom which had so long stood - and still did - against their Empire's expansionism. The two great powers, the greatest of the known world, had sparred for many generations, thousands being lost on both sides, usually to gain nothing. A bloody war of equal powers. Well, ALMOST equal, for the Chudan had once taken the great northern forteress, Doldorey Castle, and had from there won victory upon victory against their ennemies, and it seemed that their dream - that of taking of the Castle-City of Wyndham and ending this war victoriously - had been within their reach.  
  
But then came Griffith. Griffith, the Hawks and the Hundred-Men Slayer.  
  
When these people had joined on Midland's side, everything turned upside-down. Griffith, then known as the White Hawk, had led his army again and again against strategic Chudan bases, his attacks always quick, bloody and successful. His rise within the Midland military had been the death knell for the Empire. Where they usually won, the Empire started to lose ground. First several outposts had fallen, the most important one to the Hawks. Then there was the Midland victory at Fort Brax, and then the Midland army retaking lost territory, finalizing things with the climatic and daring retaking of Doldorey, which had once again equalized things.  
  
The Empire had been in the middle of internal stryfe then. It sued for peace. The drms of war finally lay silent. And then Griffith had come back, taking over the Midland Throne, and then hordes of powerful warriors had started to expand the realm in all directions. Including Chuda. And Chuda, for the last thirtenn years, had been losing ground. That angered people.  
  
That especially angered the man simply known as Deknar. A very good warrior of the Chudan Northern Militia, he had watched his home and all he held dear be destroyed by the Midland Army in the last decade and from it, he had grown angrier and bitter, until the only way he found now to release the bitterness was to make fun of the frightened newbies and the loners that hired themselves out as mercenaries. He was headed towards one of them right now, followed by his three lapdogs, men of whom he barely remembered the names and whom he tolerated only because they held his swordskills up on a pedestal.  
  
The man he was headed towards had been one he who had caught his eye the moment he'd walked in camp. Cloaked, the only thing that could be analysed was his tall, strong frame and his face. Young, with a scar under his chin and one at his neck, dark eyes which seemed grave and pondering and red hair tied in a braid behind his back. And a blue lock. The most fascinating thing was that. in front of the mass of red, a lone pale blue lock dangled, contrasting sharply with the rest. All in all, there was something, definitely something, about that young, grave-looking mercenary.  
  
The perfect bait for a little pushing around. Deknar knew these types of kids - they thought they were tough, because they'd seen one or two fights and scratched themselves while training, but push them around and they start crying like babies.  
  
He found the young man hunched over, silently reading a worn, small, leather-bound book with attention. So the kid could read, eh? Probably came from a religious order, cuz he certainly didn't look noble. He was seemingly oblivious to the four coming his way, not moving or saying anything.  
  
It was only when Deknar's shade came over him, that he made any movement. Her squinted as the lack of light made his text hard to read, then slightly turned his head in their direction, his whole expression that of one who just didn't seem to be phased by having four snickering fellows looking down at him. His face stony, he opened his mouth.  
  
"Would you please remove yourselves a bit so that I may have some light." without waiting for a reply, he turned back towards the book. "Thank you."  
  
For a moment, following this calm, almost gentle chiding from a kid who was probably little more than half his age, the man named Deknar - proud, tall, smug Deknar, who always had the effect he wanted when he meant to impress - was left speechless. Then he set his jaw, more than a little irritated. That...that BRAT had just dismissed him like he'd been some minor annoyance, a fly to be shooed away. Him! Of of the best fighters of the Northern Militia!   
  
"Don't you know who this guy is, man?" said one of his followers before he could speak "That's Deknar, the best fighter in this region!"  
  
That sentence had impressed many a young recruit when they heard it, and it had usually been a real pleasure seeing them babble incoherently or apologize frantically. It was one of the fun things about being a famous warrior - one impressed rookies. But he didn't impresse that one. In fact, all the young man with the blue patch of air did was to turn his head a little more towards them then before, look at them with serious deep green eyes, then shrug as if all of this conversation was pointless.  
  
"Nice to meet you. Now could you please let me read this?" he asked  
  
And as far as Deknar was concerned, that was IT. No little punk was going to treat him like he barely existed. Growling, he brought his right foot up and kicked the book out of the young man's hands. The youth seemed to freeze for a fraction of a moment, and in that fraction the oldder warrior felt satisfaction. 'There', he thought, 'now that brat will know he should respect me!'  
  
His satisfaction brutally evaporated in the very next fraction of a second.  
  
Faster than anyone could react to it, the man's strong hand gripped Deknar's foot with unshakable strength, and with surprising vigor pushed it upward. The warrior was unbalanced, and before anyone could react, he had fallen in the dusty soil, his expression one of surprise. He looked stunned at the now standing newbie, who seemed unconcerned with what he had just done.  
  
"Perhaps we should leave it at that. Braggards like you don't impress me. Accept it and lets both be content." with this, he turned to pick up his book.  
  
Inside Deknar, the bitterness and the humiliation were fast merging, forming a dark pit within his soul, a well of hatred and spite towards this quiet and strange young man who had just tossed aside - litterally TOSSED ASIDE - a man who had worn a sword almost as long as the kid had been alive. Already the militia man was seeing people cast looks at him, some coloured with pity, others with disdain and a few - oh yes, those were the worst! - with a barely contained mirth. The well of darkness surged up when his humiliation was complete as his three companions cast looks of doubts at each other. He'd show them! He had to! He'd show that blasted kid who was the best warrior around here!!!  
  
He surged to his feet violently, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. In a flash it was out its sheet, brutally swinging, faster than most could, with precision, intending to whack the youth backward into the dirt himself, and thus show that no bookworm wood make a fool of Deknar of Chuda. Gasps from other soldiers were uttered, and half-warnings uttered, but far too late to do any good.  
  
However, what Deknar and the other soldiers heard wasn't the ooofing sound of a person, followed by the thud of a body hitting the dirt, but a sharp sound of steel meeting steel. Everyone gasped again, but not for the same reason. For out of his cloak, faster than anyone had seen, the young man had drawn a sword, a longsword with a blade of fine make, but with an outdated hilt which came had been replaced twenty years ago at least. The youth held Deknar's blade with not effort at all, and pushed it back expertly, never loosing his calm facade.  
  
"As I said," he stated with an hint of coldness "We should leave it at that. I don't want to have to hurt you, but if you press on I will consider myself attacked and act as I see fit."  
  
Deknar was no longer listening by then, his ire pounding in his ears as he attacked the younger man with rage and strength. Another sword came out then - wearing a high-quality blade much like the first one but with a newer style of hilt. Amazingly the young man started to use these two swords to block his shots and gradually, with a flurry of steel denoting a skill which seemed almost inhuman, pin him down in one place.  
  
For every shot he took was deflected, then returned ten fold. The only luck he had was that the man used the flat of his blade, or he'd have been dead before the battle commenced at all. Still he fought for what remained of his pride, until the man - not even winded, he found in dismay - tired of it all and disarmed him with one quick maneuver. He found himself at swordpoint before his old blade hit the ground. A tense, awed silence followed. The young man gave him a chilly look.  
  
"Half of me wishes for me to kill you and revel in your blood, and that is part of why I am here - to pass this test and see how much of that part I am. But right now you will live, for my better side is in control." his eyes suddenly glared dangerously. "However, if you dare attack me again, I might not be as lenient and this goes to EVERY SINGLE one of you!"   
  
And with that, he sheathed his swords in their sheets, showing a glimpse of an armor which was rather mismatched, picked up his book, hefted his travel bag and left with an steady step. No one dared to stop him, to speak to him. All stared at him.  
  
Deknar was one of those. He should have felt humiliated at what had happened, should have been raging, but instead was white-faced and trembling, unable to control himself. Not because of the fact that he could have died. Not even because of the fact the man had passed a threat he was more than capable of carrying out. No.  
  
The reason for the fear was that for a moment, the man's eyes had shown something so cruelly lustful, there locked away in their depht, something so cruel that he wondered if hoped he had imagined it all, because what was kept locked out away beyond simply couldn't really be human.  
  
One thing was certain, Deknar the warrior would never try to fight this strange man. Ever. Because if he did, what was behind those eyes might show itself.  
  
And he really didn't want to experience that.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Aww, come on Erika!" whined Pack for at least the thirtieth time, flying circles around the raven-haired young warrior. "Its cold here! Way too cold to search some dumb ruins!"  
  
Erika, while not completely disagreeing with what the little fairy was saying, had heard the comment quite enought for one day and reacted accordingly. Reaching out, she tapped the fairy as he passed, sending him flying away a good ten feet with a startled and indignant yelp. As the room was vast he didn't hit anything and righted itself, coming back with a vengance, his tiny face screwed up in irritation.  
  
"Hey! That was mean! Why did ya do that for?!?" he asked in enervation.  
  
"I did that because you're being a pain, Pack! You've been a pain ever since we've entered the place. No, ever since we left the smithy! Can't you concentrate on the task at hand? We're near the High Priest's chamber." she answered sharply.  
  
He humphed, crossing his slim arms on his equally slim chest. He wasn't convinced, she could tell, and she really couldn't blame him. But who could have believed that one thousand years could make something as great as the Midland Empire's Castle into such nameless ruins of bygone time. It was hard to believe that the legendary warrior, Gaizerick, had once walked the then magnificient halls, well on his way to become the Emperor of the entire Known World. And cheated in this very place, by one he trusted, the priest whose real name became lost in the shadows of history, the man whom, if the ancient texts and myths spoke any truth, might have becaome the First of God Hand, the godlike being known as Void.  
  
She really wasn't all that sure that she believed the existence of these beings...or rather, she wouldn't if it wasn't for the fact that Gatts had met them - hell, he'd KNOWN the newest one as something of a friend - that Pack had seen them and that Sorin...yes, they existed. But it was hard to believe five godlings ruled the darkness, watching mankind and deciding its fate subtly, cruelly. It was hard to imagine these things had once been humans, people with thoughts and dreams of humans. Hard to believe she was about to enter the centuries-old study of the human their oldest member had once been.  
  
It was dangerous, she knew. But necessary, if her and Sorin's plan - they hadn't dared talked to Rickert, let alone Gatts about it, because they knew they would have reacted rather badly to the idea. They had told Pack because the fairy, for all his posturing, understood them, and their need to make things better. Their need the change things.  
  
Still, it was very chilling, being here. Shivering, she stopped and grasped the hilt of her sword. A magnificient blade of the very finest make, it had been Godo's work, the gift he had prepared for his tomboyish, over-energetic grand-daughter for her eighteenth years. Sadly, he had never lived to see it, but gave her the blade as a parting gift. And the blade had been soaked with tears before being soaked with blood. The sword fit her like a third arm, and every time she grasped it, she had the impression her grandfather was there, giving her strength.  
  
And it worked that time as well, as the wave of cold and fear passed, and she raised her torch higher, continuing her walk in silence.  
  
Silence on her part, at least. Pack had another way of dealing with fear. While Gatts and she took to silence and Sorin took to humming ribald songs, Pack talked. Continuously. About anything that got his attention.  
  
"Look at that pillar, must have cost a fortune to carve that thing." he was babbling. "Should show Gatts that arch, I'm sure he'd be impressed! Oh, Is that a painting, yeah a painting. Look! Look, Erika! A painting which survived looting and a millenia of time."  
  
She grunted a vague assent, still intent on finding the priest's study. Just a little farther, no? Pack, however, was on the loose now that he'd find something to comment about, looking at what the painting represented. She paid no immediate attention to what he said, only listening with half an ear as she peered around.  
  
"Oh, man, I can understand why they didn't take it! Bleh! Its so violent, its gross. I know Gaizerick was the best of the best of his time, but hadn't he done enough fighting not to want to SEE it in paintings?!? Geez! Look at that. Dead people everywhere. Just like the place Sorin is will soon...be..." his voice trailed off as his brain made contact with his tongue, but it was too late. She'd heard, and was overwhelmed by a new wave of cold, a different one this time.  
  
Sorin...he'd gone fighting in that battle, to, as he said "test the limits of his control, to see the horror of his bloodlust, and to wait for...something." Sorin, the red-haired, blue locked, grave young man who'd come one day, silent and sullen, into Godo's smithy with Gatts. The Dark Warrior had explained the child was like him a lot, in many ways. Hurt. Hurt and damned. But NOT willing to leave it at that. He had been a sullen child, silent even to Rickert or Erika for many weeks, eyeing them with suspiscion. But he had been a child, her own age, and before they knew it, and to their surpris, they had been friends.  
  
And, later, more than friends...  
  
Pack was fairly ramming himself into the wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you go and say that? Don't you have any brain at all?!? I'm sorry, Erika, I wasn't think, AS USUAL. My brother always said I had a sandbag in the place of my -"  
  
She raised a hand with a sigh. "Its okay, Pack. No harm done. I admit I'm worried. VERY worried, but I'd be worried even if he was just walking to take water for breakfast. I know that Gatts has trained him hard and that next to our sullen Dark Swordsman, he's probably the best fighter around now."  
  
Could he be any less, with the type of training Gatts had put him through. Through the years, everytime he wasn't out fighting corrupt ruffians or demons, he had trained the boy ruthlessly. Although she was certain Gatts didn't want to kill his silent 'apprentice', his only reference as a trainer had been a man who hated him from the start, so that sometimes, only Rickert or Godo's intervention had saved the boy.  
  
But Sorin had never seemed to mind the treatment, and after a few years, the dark warrior - who year by year grew increasingly frightening - and the cursed youth had develloped an almost-warm relationship, based on feelings they shared, about things none could truly understand. Sorin had once tried to explain it, but he'd given up, saying that one had to live it, and he'd never wish that to anyone.   
  
But the training bore fruit. By the age of sixteen, Sorin could easily defeat about anyone outside of Gatts. She had been trained by Rickert herself, and wasn't too bad herself, especially since Sorin and Gatts hads both given her tips. But she knew she'd never be anywhere near these two, who found so much solace in blades.  
  
She then stopped her reverie as she found herself facing a crumbling doorway, upon which was ingraved 'FATARAS ELDA UERON MORITA', 'Faith is Eternal Life'. The motto of the ancient priests. That was it! The High Priest's study! She entered inside, finding a place which could hold her torch, then inspecting the place.  
  
It had seen better days, and only a few pieces of rotten wood still showed the blaces where books had once stood. It was crumbling, forgotten, like this entire place - a place of impossible dreams and lust.  
  
"Ewww! Moldy!" Pack exclaimed, holding his nose.  
  
Yes. From rot. But as she'd hoped, there were many, very many scrolls still intact, as they had been treated with special oil to prevent the passage of time to harm them too much. Grinning, she took the bag she'd prepared for the occasion, and grinned at Pack.  
  
"Come on, help me fill this up with any readable piece you can find." she said sweetly.  
  
Pack snorted, his wings fluttering rapidly as he hovered near her. "I get no respect from you at all! Sometimes I wonder what you're looking for here." but he went to seek a lying scroll as he said this.  
  
Erika looked at her little friend for moment, before turning to her own scrounging. "Hope, Pack. I'm looking for hope." she whispered.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Shield clashed. Hooves thundered and horses neighed as they hit or trampled a foe. Sword fell upon sword and upon flesh. Cries of agony mingled with the endless roars of fury, the vows, the oaths and the prayers, as the valley was soaked with the blood of men yet another time, not by far the last.  
  
The empire had sent a great army this time to halt the Midland invasion there before they lost any more territory. Well-armed and armored, with full contigents of knights and as many hardened mercenaries that the imperial coffers could by, the Chudan army met their Midland enemy and held their ground.  
  
Barely.  
  
Fifteen years before, the Midland Army had been tough, but not quite as much as the Chudan one. Led by the the legendary Lord Boscogne and his Immortal Knights, it had had the upper hand for many years. An upper hand which had ended with the Hawks. And now, the new King - many said it was Griffith, and many thought it was something else altogether - had fielded an army so ferocious and well-trained it held the Imperial forces, which were superior in number, mired in combat.  
  
For Sorin, however, his mind wasn't on the politics of the Continent or the strength of this or that army. His mind was heavily on killing as many enemies as he could. And try to keep his dark half from enjoying it.  
  
Quick as lightning, his sword ripped through one soldier's torso, while the other was blocking a pikeman's thrust. The lance went astray and before the soldier could recover, he had cleaved his head from his shoulders with one swipe. With out waiting he charged into the enemy ranks, severing limbs, splitting skulls, feeding the soil gallons upon gallons of flowing blood. His breath came fast as the thrill of battle was upon him, the dark, cruel side of himself stirring. He tried to keep it from emerging, for this was why he was here. To confront his demons. His own blood.  
  
He screamed as a knight of Midland charged him nicking him on the arm with his lance. Not noticing his own blood or the pain, the young man let go of one sword, grabbed the armored rider, and with a raging growl and a heave, unhorsed him. Before the man could say or do anything his throat was pierced by a blade as he lay there, and without waiting to see the man agonize he took his other blood-drenched blade and went back raging into the battle.  
  
Snarling faces came to confront him, only to immediately fall away, agonized. The salty smell of blood filled his nose, and he tasted it, until he felt like bursting, like laughing, like crying. He did not feel himself in the thrill which had taken hold of him.  
  
"""It is sweet, is it not, my son?"""  
  
He paused as the voice entered his mind, filled him even more than the blood and the fighting. A woman's voice, caring and yet alive with cruel lust. Ageless yet young. Beautiful yet ugly. And carrying with it a dark pleasure that resonated with his own blood. Although he knew he had not heard the voice, yet he had. He knew not the person, yet knew it. His mother. His mother was speaking to him.  
  
"""Yes, you are right, my child! I have watched you much over the years, and you have pleased me. You are strong now. Powerful. Enough that if you would call upon the birthright I left you, nothing in Man's world would resist you!""" The voice giggled then, joyously.  
  
He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to banish the voice. "This is not what I seek! I don't want to become like you! Not like any of you! I am proud of my human blood, it is the part of me which I cherish. From your blood I only ever felt pain and suffering!" As he talked, he continued fighting, his instinct dispatching the few opponents who still dared come his way. He heard laughter in his mind, sarcastic laughter, grating on his nerve.  
  
"""Heeheeheeh! You know that's not true, boy! You feel it! You feel me and you feel us, everytime you kill, everytime your sword thrusts into another's heart, you are like us. Come with us! Let go of that girl and that doomed man! Stand beside us, and you will stand above Gatts the Dark Swordsman!"""  
  
Yes! He could be better! Enough of living in Gatts' shadow. No! What was he thinking. Gatts cared more about him than he showed. He had saved him from dying on the street. He didn't want to remove the man! Gatts was his mentor and his friend!  
  
"""Really, my boy?""" the voice seemed amused """I think he is using you! Yes, you are only a tool to get back at us, a weapon to aim at Femto and the rest of us! You are nothing to him. To any of them!"""  
  
"Lies!" he growled, and yet part of himself quaked at the thought. "They care for me! Like father did! Like sister did! And Erika loves me, as I love her!"  
  
"""Does she? Or is she making a fool of you behind your back? Even now, she might be with another, fully human lover."  
  
"Enough."  
  
"""Join us, my son. And all will be revealed. Let go of these petty bonds and assume your destiny."  
  
Part of his self rejoiced at the suggestion, a dark part he had felt inside of him ever since he could feel, the demonic blood of one on the greatest monster which ever existed, mingled with the blood of a man she had toyed with but never broken. A man who had raised him, along with his daughter. He could see their faces, their love, their legacy, the armor answords he wore, the things they had stood for. And then, from the depth of his mind, an image of Erika arose, one of her laughing, laughing at him and with him. His love for her he then felt, and the spell was broken.  
  
He laughed. Along, shrill laugh which bordered on hysteria. "SLANN!!! Mother and demon! You make a brilliant case! But I know what Godhand is, I know what Griffith gave away to become Femto! Joining you means no longer being who I am, to stop loving Erika, Pack, Rickert, Gatts! I won't do that! Unlike you, I will never become a demon!"  
  
For long moments there seemed to be nothing, and he thought that it was all over, that God Hand had left him alone for now. But then, as if drifting on the wind, the femal voice came one last time, cruel and yet loving, harsh and yet softer than silk.  
  
"""Never say never my son. Because you may go back on your vows. As we all did."""  
  
And then it was over. Sorin felt the darkness fall back, back down to the dark corners of his spirit, and found himself soaked in blood, standing amonst the dead bodies of men, the battle having left him. And he sat amongst the dead, brooding, the desire to fight gone. He knew this could not go on. Caska had never come out of her trauma, Gatts was becoming more dangerous by the day. And as for he himself...how long, with she watching, would he resist the call of Slann? The call of God Hand? How long before he hurt Erika if this kept up? Not long at this rate.  
  
Unlesss something was done.  
  
And if there was a real God, one of mercy and compassion, then Erika and he would do that something.  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 1

Redemption of Souls   
Chapter 1   
By Jeremy   
  
"You DO know you could have been killed out there."   
  
"I know. Just finish patching it up. I've got my pay and I'm anxious to leave this place."   
  
"Aren't we all?"   
  
Sorin found nothing to answer to the healer's last question, knowing it was nothing more than the truth. Around him were strewn men with a variety of wounds, ranging from mild to deadly, some missing limbs, others nearly catonic, all of them wearing a pall of despair tightly about them. The last battle between Midland and Chuda was over, with the same result as it had been for the last decade and more.   
  
The Chudan Northern Army was reatreating, conceding yet more territory to the ruthless, cruel Midlandar war machine. They's all heard tales of the casualties they had taken. Out of the eighteen thousand Chudan soldiers, militia and mercernaries, over ten thousand were dead or missing, and only half of the remaining soldiers were yet ready to fight again. Not good odds, especially since frightful rumors told that the Midland army, tweleve thousand or so strong, had taken only half the casualties that Chuda had.   
  
Oh, not everyone believed it. Many said it was just the fear that made people say things that made no sense. In fact, more than one commander was probably ready to dismiss the thought that Midland, inferior in number from the start, had changed the situation so completely in one battle. The couldn't believe. Did WANT to believe.   
  
Sorin did. He knew what Griffith - no, not Griffith, FEMTO - was capable off, the kind of demonic strength he could have given his army. An army he had sorely underestimated in his berserker outrush and the mental fight he had with the thing which he was shamed to call his mother.   
  
They had come at him while he'd been locked in mental combat - six Blood Eagles, Midland's new cadre of Elite Knights, far more ruthless but lacking the more noble outlook of the old realm's Knighthoods. They had attacked him, and while he had been able to defend himself - was it truly him there defending himself? Sometimes he wondered - they had hit him pretty badly, a fact that had become very apparent when the adrenaline rush had let off.   
  
The healer, a middle aged man who had probably seen his share of battle, had been very adamant about his wounds, and one in particular. One of the Knights had gotten under his defense at one point, and with a mighty stroke parted the leather and mail at his side. It had only been registered as a tug, while in fact the only thing which had saved him was the fact that his demonic half gave him slightly more resistant ribs than normal men. Even then, it had been a near thing.   
  
"If that sword had been only three inches lower, you would be dead right now." the healer grumbled, not for the first time, finishing up the bandages around his torso. "Beats me how you could survive at all, son, and thats a fact."   
  
He wasn't about to get into this. "I'm alive, right? It'll heal. Thats all that matters."   
  
A grunt. "There. You're done. Nothing more I can do for you, son, its all in God's hands."   
  
At the healer's rather innocent, gruff comment, Sorin gave a bitter smile that hid the inner dismay he felt at that moment. In God's Hands. Yes, indeed it was. In more ways than anyone knew. And it just happened that one of God's self-appointed 'fingers' had a direct blood link to him. Gatts had once told that was both a curse and a blessing, depending on the cicumstances. He supposed that was true, if it wasn't for the fact the curse seemed far greater than the blessing.   
  
He left the medical tent, not heeding the moans and the suffering he heard all around, him, walking briskly to the place where he'd left his pack, then striding away with all the speed he could. This battle was over. Griffith had taken a little more of the land under his darkness.   
  
He strapped his longswords to his sides, feeling their reassuring, familiar weight, sert his cloak about him, hefted his pack on his back and walked off, his step more confident then he felt. He truly was depressed, to see hope cheated, once more, and, more than anything, to see Gatts proved right.   
  
The Dark Swordsman had never been a cheerful fellow, even when he had been a small lad first learning to hold a sword straight. He knew he owed the man his skills, but hardly his life in itself - the only reaon the man had taken him with him was become Pack had badgered the warrior until he had agreed. All the while, during the years, as he trained and develloped a certain relationship with his mentor, the one-armed man became more and more sullen, deflated of hope and energy, relying more and more on his need for revenge to keep him aloft in his many battles against demons and humans alike.   
  
The last year had been the worst, as Gatts witnessed an entire village being put to the torch and didn't lift a finger to help. That had created a rift between Sorin and he, as the student believed that withholding from helping made them as bad as what they fought, made themselves only closer to their own darkness, while the teacher believed to risk death over people who would only shun him had his nature been revealed wasn't practical, needed or even necessary.   
  
The argument had escalated, and Sorin knew that if Erika, Rickert and Pack hadn't calmed things down, they would have fought, and who knew how far it might have gone from there. He had hated Gatts and his narrow-minded ways ever since, refusing to have anything to do with his old mentor's missions into the darkness.   
  
It wasn't that he felt it was part of any moral obligation. He didn't personally care about the general populace any more than any mercenary. But the let-down Gatts had shown was nothing short of weakness, weakness like protecting that despondent, childlike doll Caska, something he had never understood. Why, if the man could risk his neck time and time again to save that worthless being, had Gatts not deigned to help helpless people? He knew now.   
  
Because they meant nothing to him.   
  
Weak, weak man.   
  
And yet...strong. For he stuck by the one he loved no matter what. It would have seemed foolish to Sorin, but, with his ever-increasing relationship with headstrong, mouthy Erika, he admitted he respected it, however distantly. Morover, they both share the same rough goal. To someway, somehow, dampen the evil which the Rise of Femto had brought to the Continent. Before the battle, however, he had heard what people truly wanted, summarized in the speech of two war veterans.   
  
"Daresay we're gonna lose that one, Mirkol." one had said tiredly "Its been years we haven't won a real big fight against Midland."   
  
"I reckon on that, friend." the other had agreed with both the same tired tired resignation and a kibd of soft longing. "It all began to go all wrong when Chuda lost Lord Boscogne. He held the north together by himself, he did!"   
  
Sorin had perked up at that point, and noticed the veterans were a good forty winters old - they probably been around when Boscogne had faced Gatts in battle and died. The next words from them confirmed his suspicions.   
  
"You're right...until he went and fought that devil, the Hundred-Men Slayer." the old man had sighed. "T'was a sad when he died. With it, our strength did, I say. He shouldn't have gone out like that!"   
  
And it was there and then that he heard Erika's plan basically told on the lips of someone, and thought about it more than as a passing idea which he only half-believed in.   
  
"Its that trice-damned Griffith who should have gone out!" was the angry explosion "He's the one who made the attack that killed Boscogne. How I wish that cursed White Hawk had never been!" the man had kicked a rock angrily while the other just looked on, absently polishing his nicked blade.   
  
"Its not like we can change the past, friend." he had whispered.   
  
That was true. The past couldn't be changed...or could it. Erika had gone in books for years, studying texts whenever the opportunity arose, becoming so learned Sorin barely dared approach her on any subject except smithing, swordplay and other inanities. He himself could read and write, having been taught by Rickert, but wasn't much for any of those activities. Erika, however good a swordswoman and smith, was, and had turned her attention to something, that, she claimed, could allow people to do the unachievable - change set facts, change destiny. He had nver truly believed her, although he supported her efforts.   
  
After hearing the soldiers, and now walking away from another day of blood and darkness, he considered it seriously? Could they do it? Could they go back in time? He didn't know, but if he trusted someone to pull it off, it was Erika. And he knew what he would do, if it some how worked.   
  
There was one sure way of preventing the Rise of Femto.   
  
By killing Griffith, the White Hawk.   
  
* * *   
  
Rickert wasn't prone to anger or irritation. Always optimistic back when he joined the Band of the Hawk, he'd never been very much for the violent streaks he saw in many of his older companions. Even after the downfall of the Hawks and their bloody extermination at the hands of the man they had all revered more than anyone else, he hadn't let it sink his spirit, no matter how grim things were.   
  
But there were times when he had to call it quits and shjow some irritation. And what Gatts was preparing to do warranted a lot of it!   
  
Rickert spread his strong arms in a gesture that was half-challenge and half-supplication. "Gatts, do you think running off to get Erika's gonna make her like you more?"   
  
There was no response, only a soft clicking sound, as the Dark Swordsman loaded small arrows into the mechanical shooter built in the metal contraption wich served as the man's left forearm, a constant legacy and reminder of all he had lost against the demons he fought.   
  
The man had changed during the last decade. Oh, psysically it wasn't showing that much, except for the fact the man's hair was now more grey than black, and that wrinkles and a few lines were showing on his face - part because of age, part because of the constant strain he put himself throught day after day for so long.   
  
No, the problem ran deeper, into his deepest emotions. The strain showed more and more when Gatts started to lose all caring for what happened in the outside world, sinking deeper and deeper into constant, brooding silence which made the sullen silences he had in the old days laughing sunshine in comparison. The years had scarred him mentally, and it was showing more and more.   
  
It showed in the way he interacted with the young ones. At first, he had been relaxed with them when he wasn't training them, but as the years went by he became a lot more demanding, an increased that went in proporotion with his lack of caring for human lives. Consequently, his relationship with Erika and especially Sorin had deteriorated to the point where Erika was almost cold and the red-haired youth nearly wanted his head. And yet it didn't stop him from trying to control their lives, like he was going to do now.   
  
"Gatts, answer me!" he growled, this time more intently. "Do you think you won't just make things worse then they are?!? Erika won't come back if she doesn't want to, and Sorin'll KILL you if he finds out you forced her!"   
  
Still no answer. Ricker couldn't take it anymore.   
  
"DAMN YOU GATTS!" he roared, his voice so deep it would have surprised that old, nagging Corkus, and even would have made Judeau blink. "YOU CAN'T PROTECT THEM WHEN THEY DON'T WANT TO BE PROTECTED! DOING THIS WON'T..." he stopped short, biting off his words, realizing what he'd been about to say.   
  
So did Gatts, for that matter. But there wasn't the outburst of anger there would have been even just a year ago. The tall, muscled man just stopped his loading and stood still, silent, the darkness that seemed to have become part of him gathering more thickly about him in a show which was almost brutal in its intensity. For some reason, Rickert was suddenly reminded of the strange being he had dubbed the Skull Knight, a being of immense power who, while disinterested in saving people in general, was dedicated in destroying those who played with the lives of those very people. A being who had saved him from death.   
  
Three of them. Three fighters with enough personal power drive and control of their own fate, fighting those who enslaved humans from behind the scenes. The Skull Knight, cold and ancient, relying on powers beyond this world, holding to no morals except his own. Gatts, strong, angry and stubborn, wishing nothing more than to kill the one they had all once held in high esteem, and all related to his corruption. And Sorin, serious, arrogant and having a strange nobility about him, holding to strong morals as a sinking man would hold to a floating piece of woods. These three were dangerous, deadly, when one were in the way of their goals.   
  
But because those three existed, Rickert couldn't help but have some hope, some cheer that the world wasn't COMPLETELY forsaken.   
  
But right now, he had hurt one of those three, one whom he still considered a friend. He cast about for something to say, something to make up for the terrible slip-up he had wrought. He found none, except to continue with his tirade, but in a more moderate tone.   
  
"Gatts, I think that what you've been doing is wrong." he said as gently as he could "You're denying these two the right to do what they can to help whenever the circumstances permit it. Going off after Erika will only make them more resentful."   
  
"Maybe." the grim swordsman intoned gruffly. "Maybe you're right, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let that kid get herself into trouble. And she IS expecting trouble, or she wouldn't have taken Pack with her." the loading of arrows resumed.   
  
Rickert couldn't deny the logic of the statement. After all, Pack was a fairy, and could produced a dust which allowed a far faster, safer and more complete healing of wounds than human medicine could do. Added to that was the big hush-hush that she had about her expeditions, and her plans in the near future. It wasn't something the warrior-turned blacksmith liked, but he trusted her. In fact, he trusted both these young ones, as he'd seen them grow and knew their character.   
  
But Gatts' level of trust had never been as high as his. Even when he had trusted more, in the days of the Band of the Hawk, it had never been complete. The Eclipse had destroyed everything which had been built there, and these days he didn't trust anyone completely, not him, not Pack, Sorin or Erika. And, most of all, he didn't trust himself.   
  
Still, he couldn't go on like this forever.   
  
"She has her reasons, Gatts." he said, trying to be reasonable. "Lets give her the benefit of the doubt for a while, alright?"   
  
Instead of answering his question, Gatts turned to him and, in a softer voice which was hardly ever heard, he asked something else entirely. "Is Caska still sleeping?"   
  
That stopped him for a moment, the familiar pang of sadness and bitterness returning. Even after thirteen years, he could still remember the pain and horror of finding out that Caska, a fiery woman who had been second only to Griffith himself in commanding the Hawks, had been reduced to a childlike, innocent state of utter vulnerability by the trauma of seeing her dearest friends die horribly, and most of all of being raped by a man she revered. That, beyond anything, had brought the searing hatred Gatts had for Griffith. An hatred Rickert now shared to a lesser degree.   
  
Caska...Judeau...Pippin...even Corkus. They had been more than friends to him in his youth. They had been family. And Griffith had taken that away, made their faith and dedication seem like nothing. And even now, he was busy bringing the continent under his control in a perverted version of the dream he'd had when he was still human.   
  
He nodded at Gatts, fixing the intense eye which looked at him evenly with an evn gaze of his own. "She's sleeping soundly. I checked on her only a few moments ago."   
  
Gatts nodded slowly, and snapped the loaded arrows in his mechanical arm, making the whole thing look more like an armored forearm than anything else. "Then look after her while I go see what Erika's up to. I shouldn't be gone more than a few days."   
  
"Gatts..."   
  
He stalled the protest with a raised hand, then walked to the door of the smithy and hefted the gigatic lump of metal with the dubius calling of a sword named Dragonslayer, putting it in place on his back with an ease that always had made Rickert shiver. The two fighters - Gatts because of his strange brand and skills, Sorin because of his demonic blood - often showed feats of stamina, strength and skill far beyond what normal warriors may do - something they weren't so proud of but was highly useful when going after whole armored bands or lesser demons.   
  
"I know you don't like it, but I won't live with a secret, even from that girl or that boy." he said evenly, opening the door. "I've got to know for myself what they plan to do and how, so that I may be ready."   
  
Rickert couldn't help but be irritated by the strange response his brooding friend had just told, he came forward, until he was but a foot from the Dark Swordsman. Years had added to his height and build, but he was still small compared to Gatts or even Sorin.   
  
"Ready for what, Gatts?" he asked in exasperation.   
  
A short look. "For the worst, as always. See you later, Rickert." And he was gone, closing the door behind him.   
  
Leaving Rickert with nothing but confusion and a vague sense of dread.   
  
* * *   
  
Humans did not know everything. In fact, it was surprising and pitiful how little they knew of life, and of the ways of life and death. They just walked along their lives thinking they guided themselves to their own hands, their destinies defined only by God.   
  
They were wrong.   
  
Destiny was controlled by outside forces, forces which ruled many dimensions and had power beyond all imagination. These forces controlled every threads of life, death, joy hope that every single being had, has or will have as time would go on until the universe came to an end. It had been that way from times untold, and had been until one being had managed to change things by grasping a few of these threads, becoming a being of awe-inspiring power.   
  
That being was Void, the First, the one who had betrayed the great Emperor Gaizerick, the one who nearly succeeded in uniting the continent under his rule. The first summon, the creation of Void's God Hand, had cost uncountable lives, destroying Gaizerick himself and scattering the nations of the continent anew. It had meant little to Void, as he had proceeded to gain control over the lower demons, creating other lords who were answerable only to him, humans who had incredible gifts but for whom fate had chosen disillusioning, pain, and bitterness.   
  
Slann had been one of these people, one of those whom Void had sensed the potential, and arranged for her to receive an Egg of Kings, the red, mishapen lump which granted protection during their bearer's fast rise and then gave answers to their unwitting call during their resounding fall.   
  
Slann, seating on a mishapen throne and watching events played across the mortal realm with her mind's eye, couldn't help but remember how she had come to become what she was, and how willingly she had embraced it, only once regretting it in the century and a half of years which passed afterwards.   
  
She had been born Tristella, daughter of small, hardworking merchants who had taught her to look for herself and never trust anyone implicitely. She had taken their words to heart, and as she had grown, she had used that distrust to peer past lies, misdirections, and veiled threats to become someone to whom one simply couldn't tell a lie. It had given her much power over her small community, and her ambitions had grown with the power. Craving recognition, she had ascended the steps of society.   
  
She had taken over her parents' small mercantile business after their deaths with that purpose in mind, and with her very high intelligence, her natural distrust and the natural way with which she could seduce men - something she would learn as her 'special' talent, the one given to her by Void when he twisted the threads of Fate. By the time she was twenty-five, she had become rich, popular and admired in the entire region of Southeast Chuda. These had been the golden days of her human life.   
  
They hadn't lasted. For she made a mistake. She, the great seductress, the untouchable one, fell in love with a man, a love so all-consumming she never saw the greed and foul deeds hidden behind his eyes.   
  
He had used her love for him, incessantly, using her blindness to steal away the fortune and dreams she had spent so much time and so much effort building, making her nothing more than a pawn in his grand schemes. When she had discovered what he had been doing, she had gone to him, scared, lost, demanding why he had done what he did, why he was so intent on destroying her life.   
  
He had laughed at her, demeaning her, saying now outloud what he had thought for years: that she was just a female, a second-rate being who had built her fortune on luck and whoring. He had soffed at her dreams, indeed at her very existence, now that she was nothing, just a pretty thing whom he could take as he pleased. Her sould had shattered that day, and the dreams had began. The demonic dreams, calling her to her true self, as she plunged into despair and an uncaring pall. At last she had been unable to stand, life, had cut her wrists, and a few drops of blod had stained the Egg of Kings, which had screamed to both heaven and hell, heralding the arrival of God Hand.   
  
That day, an eclipse had occured, at the end of which her entire hometown was a blighted field of death. That day, Tristessa had chosen, and become the 'Kiss of Distrust', Slann. It had been a new beginning.   
  
And for more than a century she had watched over man's destiny with Void, Conrad and Ubik, sometimes indulging the lust the transformation had seemingly only heightened. From that sometimes uncontrollable vice, had spawned an event even the great Void, with powers and knowledge far exceeding hers, hadn't predicted.   
  
The demonic voice of a demon she knew well rang in her head, timidly and respectfully demanding her attention. She frowned her slender eyebrows as she heard the mental voice calling.   
  
"Speak." she sent, her voice soft but promising dire punishement if she were called upon for nothing.   
  
"Mistress," the demonic voice squeaked in its unnatural voice "Your heir has left the battlefield and is returning to the Branded Ones' abode. He is wounded, but not severely, and your noble which course through his veins has already started to heal him."   
  
If there was anything wrong with the small demon who was directed to put up a constant, if far-away watch on her heir, it was that he talked far too much. And big talkers - much like that insufferable chatterer, Ubik, always got on her nerves.   
  
"Very good." she stated a little snappishly. "Show him to me through your eyes." And within a few moments she saw her heir, Sorin. Her son.   
  
Her demonic heart couldn't help but skip a beat as she looked upon the one who had defied fate and nature. He wore bandages around his arms, and it was more than probable he had others around his body. After all, she had been told he had had the intention in participating in a the battle between the Imperial Army of Chuda and the Royal Army of Midland, which Femto now controlled with a single-minded iron fist. He stood by the Branded Ones, against her and her minions, and yet she felt only a twinge of sadness from it. Sadness and disappointment.   
  
She hadn't expected a human could ever make her pregnant, and had taken the man's father - a strong, very handsome warrior who already had a teenaged daughter - without a taught, only giving in to her needs. When she had fallen pregnant, it had sent God Hand into turmoil, and Void himself had been rather stumped on what to do. Finally, as the child was born, she had given him to his human father until they could decided what to do - something which lasted a few years. Years during which the child fatally grew, with little knowledge of his greater heritage, actually loving the dumb - if invariably handsome - warrior and his achingly righteous daughter.   
  
It had all gone from bad to worse from there, until it had come to this. Sorin, her heir, her son, felt more loyalty upon that one-armed sacrifice whom the cursed undead warrior who had been the great Gaizerick in life had saved, than his own mother. He had thrown in with those few humans who fought God Hand, refusing his heritage.   
  
This was something she would NEVER accept.   
  
She couldn't explain it to herself. Perhaps it was a remnant of Tristessa's old dreams, of being recognized by someone who counted, but no matter what the reason was, she needed to have her son at her side, now and forever, giving her what she'd need without hesitation. Her beloved child, something which would be all hers. But for that, she had to wrench the human side of him who kept him attached to the Branded Ones, and especially, to crush the attraction he had for that worthless human meddler.   
  
To do that, she had taken a risk, by hiding that puny female's plan from the other four, especially that cold, naive pup of a lord, Femto. Her son feigned disinterest, but she could feel through her blood that he had high hopes for it - it was his main anchor to humanity.   
  
She would lend them enough power to succeed in their attempt. Let them try to change fate. They would fail.   
  
She knew that this meddling couldn't help but to be noticed by Void himself. But the fact the great lord of all God Hand and the Demon Dimension hadn't said or done anything to alert the others, even Conrad, either meant that he either wanted to see what hewr little experiment would reap, or that he simply deemed the whole scheme beneath him. Either way was fine with her, as long as she could go on.   
  
"My son..." she said, her tone slightly enraptured "My son, you will be with me soon. As soon as you see the past and understand that you cannot change it, you will come to me, my heir and flesh!"   
  
He would. Oh yes. He would.   
  
And she would welcome him when he came.   
  
* * *   
  
"Well, it certainly wasn't a waste of time!" Erika commented, reading a scroll, her face nearly completely lost in the old, preserved paper as she read instructions which seemed to be more interesting than walking ahead. Pack only sighed at the sight, and decided to work as a part-time vigil, by putting himself on her shoulder, sitting and peering at the road intently.   
  
"Yeah, right!" he couldn't help scoffing at her "We just spent three whole days in a dank, old castle which belonged to a long-dead guy who way back in the history books, kicking rats away and picking up pieces of scrolls! Its so fun I'm going to faint from the very pleasure of it!HA!"   
  
Erika gave him a small, curt glare before returning to the study of her latest scroll collection. "No need for you to be sarcastic, Pack."   
  
"What! Me? Sarcastic? Me?" he exclaimed indignatly, glad for this chance to break out of the serious mood things had been in for the past few days. He stood up on her shoulder and pointed at her imperiously, trying to and utterly failing to look even the slightest bit menacing. "Me, sarcastic? I'm the most truthful, least sarcastic fairy this side of the continent, I'll have you know. Why, to try to tell someone like me that I'm sarcastic...its...its enough for me to fly high in the air and laugh at the top of my lungs.   
  
Which he did, flying over far over the dusty road, higher than the tree tops, put his hands on his hips and laughed out loud, his voice surprisingly strong for one as small as he was. "HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!"   
  
He laughed for a few moments before Erika finally - at last, let all trumpets give the tone of victory - looked away from her reading to shoot an even darker look at her. It was the kind of look which had made even Sorin and Gatts, two big guys with big swords who could squash the girl, pause and reconsider the reasons for which it had been worth getting in a quarrel with the dark-haired, fiery young lady.   
  
"That's enough, Pack! You're grating my ears and scaring off the animals. Just...just come down here and please TRY to be serious and quiet, or I'll squash you and eat you for my mid-day meal!"   
  
That kind of threat was hollow - well, with Gatts there was always a DOUBT, but not with Erika - and he'd heard far worse anyway, so all the little fairy did was stick his tongue down at her, teasing her. That was when he saw the rustling of nearby bushes, and the gleam of a steel blade. He recognized the signs at once.   
  
"Erika! Its an ambush!" he shouted. And at that moment they came out. Three bandits, armed with rough weapons and mismatched armor, lunging at what seemed to them an easy - not to mention beautiful - target. They gave rough cries and charged her.   
  
The helpless target wasn't so helpless, however. While Pack's cry was still resounding, the raven-haired swordswoman had cast away her pack of scroll away in one fluid move, and drawn her fine-blade weapon with another quick slash. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, and made the three men hesitate, an hesitation which allowed her to take up a good defensive position before the tri-pronged attack resumed.   
  
They circled her, slowly tightening the trap, attacking her each in turn, trying to make her lose her calm or her concentration. It was a rather disorderdly attack, but then again the three seemed to know how to work together, since each seemed to know what the others would do. They weren't third-rate bandits, but, fortunately, nothing as dangerous as true mercenaries or soldiers gone renegade.   
  
"Hey, baby!" purred one "Wha'cha doing out here...alone?"   
  
"She's not! I'm here!" said Pack from his position above. He was ignored.   
  
"I think its a little gal who thinks she can play soldier like men!" another sneered.   
  
"Yeah? Well, sounds to me like the little gal's got something coming to her, cuz thats not the kind of game we intend to play with her!" said the third, bringing in a round of raucous laughter which gave no doubt what kind of 'game' the three had in mind.   
  
Erika listened to them jabber with something akin to amusement mixed with disgust on her fair face, an amused smile which simply didn't reach her eyes at all. She was in control, her breath coming in and out perfectly evenly, her stance firm, not rigid. Pack knew that she was probably recalling the lessons Rickert Gatts and Sorin had taught her, as well as her own battle experience. Yes, these three were in for a surprise.   
  
She brought her blade slightly forward, her smile widening into a sneer. "I'm not sure I want to play that game of yours boys, but if you want, I'll let you play mine. Its call 'kill the useless bandits'. Anyone in?"   
  
These guys certainly weren't the brightest stars in the universe, for they stiffened in anger with only that little quip. Experienced warriors would have picked up the steel in her voice, would have seen and acknowledge the confidence in her stance, and taken heed of it all by reconsidering their strategy. These three didn't even do that. All they were seeing was a lowly female waving sword around. Blind fools. Pack ALMOST felt sorry for them.   
  
"You bitch! You really want to have it!" growled one, hefting his worn blade. "We'll screw you and dump you into a hole!"   
  
"You're welcome to try." she answered evenly, letting faint mockery pervade her tone.   
  
It made them mad, to be told off by a woman, so much that they attacked her, without even concerting each other. They just went in with cries which supposedly wanted themselves dangerous and deadly. They went at her one by one, then in pack, but more often than not were just in each other's way.   
  
This was the kind of anger and confusion Erika had hoped to create, to negate the three-to-one odds as much as she could. She charged with cold precision, letting her speed do the job where her strength would have been found wanting.   
  
She dodged an attack by ducking under a clumsy swing of a rusted blade, catching the bandit from below and striking him deep in the belly with her blade, cutting a deep slash which spilled some of his innards. The thug looked at the wound, then at her, in shock, before coughing up blood and falling over.   
  
This stopped the other two for a moment, as they stared at her unexpected kill - at least to their point of view. She knew thaqt the odds were still against her a bit, and took hold of that confusion, attacking in the way which unnerved even the staunchest soldier she had ever been brought up against. She howled with a cold, high-pitch laugh, and launged at the two with a ferocity which seemed maddened.   
  
She was a skillful fighter. Not Sorin or Gatts, of course, but she did have speed, intuition and stamina, which allowed her to be more than the average with a sword in hand. However the bandits had recovered by then, and harrassed her with their greater strength and numbers. The battle became a tense affair, rolling back and forth.   
  
And then Pack fell out of the sky with a small warcry and plastered himself against one of the bandits' face. The bandit cried out, flailed, and finally removed Pack out of his field of vision angrily, but it had taken a few moments. And they had been costly. Knowing this was the time to truly settle things, Erika had slain the other bandit at the cost of a light wound to the shoulder. She turned to face him just as he let go of Pack, a cold smile upon her lips.   
  
"And so, the game ends." she whispered.   
  
She crossed blade with the last bandit, beating him back inch by inch, but she didn't notice the first one coming to his feet, clutching his blooody belly, his face pale and almost unseeing, as he readied a dagger which would end her life. Pack saw him, dazed as he was, and opened his mouth to shout a warning.   
  
There was no need, in the end. An arrow sped out of nowhere, the shaft embedding itself into the brains of the ruffian, who fell back down with a startled noise, just as Erika clove the head of the last one with a mighty stroke. She looked back at the shot man, then at the figure which had let the arrow fly.   
  
Tall and dark, Gatts stood there, his mechnical forearm raised, his good eye burning, the great hilt of Dragonslayer protuding out of his cloak. He lowered his arm as both of them looked at him.   
  
"Erika, its good to see you're okay." he said, his voice soft. But then his eye burned even hotter "But now you're going to tell me why you're here, with Pack, and what your game is. I want an explanation, a good one, and now."   
  
Erika looked at him, hesitating, and Pack was about to launch into a tirade with the Dark Swordsman to dissipate the tension, but she then drew herself up, wincing a bit a her wounded shoulder cried out.   
  
"Alright, Gatts. I will. But I'm not sure you're going to like it." she said calmly.   
  
To Pack, this was the understatement of the century. He barely kept from laugfhing, knowing they both would strangle him if he did. He couldn't wait to see the explosion later on.   
  
* * *   
  
Night had fallen, bringing with it both its terror and its bliss. Most people, wicked or not, had fallen asleep or were busy enjoying each other's company over a tankard or two of ale. Others found pleasure in recounting fairy tales and warstories to impressed little children who pestered about not going to bed. Others yet, especially young couples, found more rewarding to deepen their knowledge of intimacy. Everyone, even the militia guardding the cities or villages, had something to do during the night.   
  
The figure, walking along a dirt road with no light, concealed by bthe darkness, also had a goal, as desperate as it seemed.   
  
It walked with an even gait which denoted it did not fear the darkness as much as an ordinary peddler. Its breath was even, cautious. Drapped in a cloak which hid everything from head to toe, it was hard to tell anything else, except the feeling of despair which pervaded it, the agony of years and or disillusionment which seemed fairly stamped on it. It could be seen with the way the shoulders, once square and proud, had sagged as if a great weight had been thrust upon them. It was the sign of someone who had lost all hope.   
  
The cloaked figure hadn't lost hope, but it was a near thing. Its spirit, so strong that it had made men far greater than it fall before it, had dimmed, and was now only clinging to one last, fragile and flickering light, both in truth and figuratively. Before it, only a small way yet, was the smithy of the late, famed blacksmith who had gone by the name of Godo. It was the figure's goal, the reason it had walked so long and so far.   
  
It was rumoured the Dark Swordsman lived there from time to time, and that the people inhabiting the smithy counted amongst his friends, ensuring that no bandit would ever think of attacking the place. But the figure had no wish to fight the Dark Swordsman. It had tried once and nearly paid with its life.   
  
No, the figure had come to beg his help in rallying forces and trying to overthrow King Griffith, who had soiled and cursed Wyndham Castle by his sheer presence. Where the man had once been the summit of nobility and hope for the kingdom during the last leg of the Hundred Years War, he had become the very pinnacle of evil and terror, transforming proud Wyndham into a dark forteress and working to create an equally foul empire which would span the continent north to south, east to west.   
  
The armies the king had were monstrously strong, but with the Dark Swordsman on their side, it might be possible to rally the few groups of Midlandar soldiers, especially the Rebel Army Lord Owen has used to retain a few western provinces, together with the Chudan Imperial Army. With the Dark Swordsman fighting for them, it might well be possible to slow and perhaps stop Griffith's rampage.   
  
It was with this hope the figure entered the front yard of the smithy, from which lights still shone brightly, intending to knock and enter no matter how late it was, no matter the hostility that might arise when it was reavealed who it was - it had passed beyond caring about those things in the last decade or so.   
  
However, as its hand came a few inches from the heavy wooden door, it stopped as it heard a voice. It was coming faintly through a shutter which was just slightly ajar. The voice was rough, speaking loudly, with a mix which contained anger, exasperation, some wonderment and just a little bit of something she couldn't readily identify. It was a voice the figure easily recognized.   
  
The Dark Swordsman.   
  
The cloaked person felt intrigued by the discussion it had stumbled upon, and skittered to the shutter softly, its booted feet making little noise. It laid its head close to it, and the voice she knew became quite clear suddenly. It was indeed angry.   
  
"-can't believe you be lieve in that kind of stupidity, Erika! There's no way I'm letting either you or Sorin go through with this!" it sounded just a trifle worried, which confirmed he cared about these people.   
  
Another voice answered. A female voice, light and sweet-sounding, but tainted with determination and a steely cold. "I don't remember asking you to be part of this, Gatts!" she said hotly "In fact, I deliberately wanted you OUT of this!"   
  
"I don't give a DAMN about what you want -" Gatts started furiously.   
  
"Watch it, Gatts!" another young voice, its male tone angry and cold "I don't agree with what she wants to do that much, but if Erika thinks it can work, than I think it can. Don't push it."   
  
A tense silence followed, which another voice - which seemed male, yet seemed very childish and old at the same time, hurriedly filled in. "Hey, hey hey! We're all friends here! Lets try not to break anything. Not that you big guys ever listen to me but - "   
  
"SHUT UP, PACK!" both previous males roared, and with a squack and a sound of utter indignation, the third voice fell silent. Again the void took over the conversation, and the figure started to think it was over, when another voice, male also, but sounding more reasonable than the quarelling ones, stepped in.   
  
"Okay, Erika. I think I for one can understand what its all about. I'm not sure I agree with it, but I can understand it." a pause "But why didn't you ever tell us?"   
  
"Because I know how thinking too much about Griffith or the Band of the Hawk burn the both of you. Sorin's anger equals yours, but not against him, and Pack didn't go throught what you did, so I told them." said the female voice dryly."   
  
Another silence. Then the Dark Swordsman's voice came back, more wondering than angry this time. "Going back in time...can it truly be done? Can someone truly change history?"   
  
The figure nearly cried outloud when it heard this, almost revealing its presence. Going back in time?!? That was fantasy and fairy tales, from the bygone days of Gaizerick when it was said whizards and powerful priests walked the Continent! How could anyone belive they could accomplish such a feat, even if that power could be found after more than a millenia of time? Truly these people must be mad! The figure felt the hope it had rise a bit nonetheless, and was all the more shocked by what came next.   
  
"Yes, I think it can be done! The spell is complicated but I've amassed the ingredients that were required, and the scrolls should help me finalize it! With it, I'm sure we can go back in time and find a way to actually save Griffith from damnation!"   
  
The voice was so eager, so hopeful, when it said that, that the figure felt the hope rise in the room subtly. She had given them something that they had lost. Even from the Dark Swordsman, it could feel it, subtle but present.   
  
But the figure did not feel that hope. It felt only cold shock, and a rising wrath. Save Griffith? Save GRIFFITH?!? After all that damn demon had done?!? How could they think of this? Traitors! How could they consider SAVING this harbinger of doom? Better to go back and kill him, before he could do any of his evil deeds.   
  
That stopped the cloaked person cold. Kill him... Yes, that was it! Let them try their spell! It would make sure to go along with them, one way or another.   
  
And it would do the right thing.   
  
Forgetting the chill of the night and the rising wind, forgetting its despair for a few moments, the figure simled.   
  
Yes. It would do the right thing.   
  
And God helped those who would try to stop it!


End file.
